albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

She jokes. She, who barely spoke more than two words when he first came to know her.

There is something to be gleaned from it that he does not recognize in the slightest, but it is a welcome shift regardless— the edge of his own mouth twisting wryly as his own footsteps slow to a stop, abandoning whatever urgency had spurred him here in the first place.

“Expert seems incorrect, to my knowledge. Passable in skill, perhaps.”

"Doubting me?" She pretends to gasp in offense, like a proper Archadian court lady. She even swoons a bit, but it's pretty obvious she has to grip a nearby chair not to fall over. It's her right hand. The hand on the side of her body that wasn't stabbed.

Grumbling, "nothing's wrong with the legs, mind you, they just have me on something."

He does not think to catch her— only acts with immediacy, closing the distance to catch her forearm in the heavy set of his own outstretched palm, adding to the brace of the chair she’s clinging to. Better him than something stiff, easily inclined to give way.

“For pain, or for healing?”

Jone leans happily into his metal carapace, content to be lead. "Pain," she says, and pulls one side of her medical pyjamas up. Not far enough for anything explicit, just showing the ugly red scar, complete with bright white stitches, snaking up one side. "As though this is the worst I've ever felt."

She rolls her eyes. She's a warrior, a Judge, this is nothing. The drugs make her feel dopey and suspicious, and the sleep they bring is feverish and unsteady.

Suspicion on her own medicinal part is suspicion on his without— nothing he can give voice to, and nothing true, no doubt, but he finds his eyes lingering there all the same, frustrated. Healing from near death takes time and care, had be been the one to fall no doubt he’d be enduring the very same vexations that gnaw at her now.

But she is the newest addition to the Magistrate. The youngest, the one with least expertise to spare— and even less claim than Noah fon Ronsenburg.

And Vayne flirts always with trimming excess in subtle ways. But that is...treasonous to consider. Incorrect, besides, he is certain. He cannot let Emperor Gramis’ aged suspicions cloud the clarity of his judgment: her care is sound, he has witnessed most all of it, and she will recover in due time without complication.

“You must forgive me for my lateness. There has been much need in the last few days, and my excuses run thin.”

Jone continues to lean on Gabranth, enjoying the coolness of his armor. She's just glad he's there, and a little tickled he thinks she's been keeping time. Whatever the healers are doing, it leaves her feeling frequently weightless, unsure of time or date.

"No, no, it's fine. No apologies. Tell me what I've been missing in the wide, grand world."

“A great deal, unfortunately.” The last part of that statement he regrets as soon as it slithers out in exhale between his own teeth, close as it is to honesty— and insult in regards to their efforts. “The Lord Consul is dissatisfied with the treaty parameters, and believes the land that is being ceded to Archades is far too small to be considered adequate, or deferential. Thus we are at an impasse, where he feels the rebels will be emboldened once more if we take what is offered as it remains. That it is a weakness.”

Emperor Gramis disagrees, but Gabranth won’t move to cite that truth unprompted, lest it be seen as taking sides or expressing dissatisfaction.

He helps her move towards the bed, letting her cling to his arm all the while, even when she must lower herself to meet the soft comfort of the mattress.

Jone sits back on the bed, greedily keeping his hand in hers. "Never enough, innit."

She lets her head hit the headboard with a little thunk, eyes closing for a breath. The thoughts stir, then still, in her mind. Reopening her eyes, she says, "they redeploying you? Or are we still negotiating."

She yawns. "Should've offed the Clucarin Guild Masters. Closest to Videreyn kings."

“Sometimes I imagine all of Ivalice would not satisfy.” And damn him for his own sure-footed foolishness, letting so much slip in her care; his eyes wander briefly towards the doorway, content to see that it remains closed.

“The Lord Consul makes overtures. I am certain the Emperor will do nothing yet, but that does not mean there will be no task given to call me away.”

He studies the paleness of her features, the shadows beneath her eyes, no different than prior weeks, no, but that is hardly heartening during recovery.

“How is your care? Do they treat you sufficiently?”

"Hope they send someone with you," Jone says, surprised to find jealousy in her voice. It's stupid, but she hates being laid up like this, useless.

She grins up at him as he asks. "How would I know?"

“Perhaps it would be you. If you would hurry in your mending.”

It is not quite teasing: he does genuinely wish for her to return to service at his side— yet now he is denied both her companionship as well as Drace, and it leaves him feeling strangely starved in ways he’d never before thought himself capable.

His arm withdraws, his form regained as he tugs off the span of his own gauntlet, placing one rough palm across her forehead.

“Need I supervise their efforts?”

If she cannot gauge it, then perhaps....

She shoos his hand away. "You can't feel anything with that, c'mon."

Jone lies back a little in bed, because she imagines it will make him pleased, because he looks worried, because she'll do whatever he can to help. "Don't, Gabranth. You've enough on your plate. I'll be fine."

“Do not question me.” Stern-hearted as any command given on the battlefield, it is only his own forceful tone that remains defanged here and now. She might've dislodged his attempts at studying her state, but she hasn't yet warded him off entirely.

“I have a right to desire your companionship, as surely as I've the right to demand your return to service.” He watches her sink between covers, still perched and looming at her side like a strange, half-formed nightmare. One that would see her well, if only fate would make it so.

“To that end, you cannot deny me what would bring easement, no matter how it discomforts you.”

In this moment he remains very clear: this is not about you, Jone. Not entirely.

She gives him a canny look, peeking above the covers, her hair a mess. Green eyes flicker mischief more than fatigue or pain. Enjoyment of his company, that, too, but to her mind those are synonyms. If you like someone at least a little, are even a tad curious about them, how can you stop from riling them? How else do you get on?

She peeks her full face out of the covers, "then why did you ask?"

“To grant you opportunity for concession with dignity.”

It is not a wry statement, he means every word of it, even as the cast of his expression runs cool and soft at the edges, his eyes fixed on her— and her alone.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he plots the course of his own obligations, and how he might yet wring out more time for this. Here.

He finds a place to sit beside her in the interim. At the edge of the mattress, rather than in a chair at distance.

“Though I did suspect you would not take it.”

"Dignity?" It makes Jone laugh, a stupid little giggle. "You've seen me in pyjama's how many times now? If I were a proper court lady, I'd have none left. Can't believe you're putting on airs for me, now."

She reaches forward, a hand on his pauldron. "That's the most annoying kind thing anyone's ever done for me."

“You must learn to hold it eventually.” He counters smoothly, though something in his unyielding posture withers itself down into subtlety beneath her hand.

A good sign, in truth, that heaviness of her grip across polished armor. Much like her ability to walk.

“And I’ve placed too much of my own reputation in your skill— your successes— to simply stand by without pressing you into proper conduct.” This, he says, knowing full well they’d played fool in some shoddy little pocket of a restaurant, shirking both duty and augustness alike for the briefest period of time.

"To pretend I'm someone grand and serious? Not all the others are. I'll stay with presumptive, and let the rest wonder."

Why not rub her cheek in their face? They, who are just as proud. Pretending she's of fine breeding will only make her laugh, much less the others.

"How much of your reputation?" She leans her head in, conspiratorial. "You been talking me up?"

“You are not so pedigreed, nor so loved, Jone. You cannot afford to be bold save for your own tactics in battle.”

Perhaps this is his own fault for encouraging her with a free, indulgent hand. That he views her as his equal, when so much of where they stand is based on matters of earned keep— which can always be rescinded.

Helms can be passed on. Refitted. Her lineage means nothing, her wealth only borrowed.

She must not forget this.

“I spoke praise of you, yes. Yet it is all true, and your commendation fast approaches.” Particularly if she stands now, if she walks, even by middling measures.

She leans in, and so does he— shadows deep beneath his eyes. The weight of long, dark eyelashes.

“Consider what that means carefully, for both our sakes.”

You are not so loved. Already, the weight of her own mind twists the recent memory into something more consumable. Did she need to be reminded of that, and the color of the sky, and of air she breathes, and her own name?

Apparently so. She closes her eyes, leaning back. She has forgotten herself. How foolish she must look, to a man made of honor such as Gabranth. A bratty novice, distracted by finery, refusing advice that benefits him as much as her. He has given her so much, and what has she done?

She pauses there, ruminating on her failure. She knows how to keep her expression clear, to avoid the urge to throw herself at something, to cause harm. She knows where she is, and the creature she is expected to be. Perhaps one day, maybe, if she works very hard, someone will put a stake through her as she deserves.

In the meanwhile, she must uphold Gabranth's honor. She opens her eyes. "My apologies," she says, "you're right, as always. I have been... lax, always, but especially now."

He cannot see it. He is too blunted, too blind, to understand the shift in mindset he’s prompted— instead, he thinks she’s only taken to his sharp insistence for the sake of self-preservation, rather than camaraderie.

Which is fortunate. It means there is no weakness in the plating of her figurative armor. That she does not forget she walks in a palace with a thousand eyes.

This will save her, he is certain.

“There is nothing to forgive.” She will do better, and he will see her succeed. There will be no excess friction in her rise to authoritative power. To the Emperor's fully given trust. “I will send Drace to your side tonight, in my own stead, to ensure you are not treated unkindly.”

Jone shakes her head. "No, please. Grant me the kindness of solitude, while I think on this."

Drace means well. She has nothing in common with Drace. She has nothing in common with Gabranth either, she's been so reminded, but at least she feels some modicum of safety in his presence.

Drace babysitting her would only feel like pity.

Drace is nobility. She is pride in perfection, and the very pinnacle of the Magistrate itself, and even Gabranth struggles to keep pace with the mark she sets.

He...does not blame Jone for this, he realizes. In her place, he would feel no different. No less weak while wounded in such a shadow, when already they are made to feel lesser to begin with. So she asks, and so he relents, dipping his own head in show of absolute deference to it.

Instead at last he sinks at her bedside, settling once more across the edge of the mattress as he favors as of late. One hand resting near her shoulder.

“Then I shall remain until you sleep.”

"No. I let my guard down around you; do not confuse it for carelessness. Trust this little, at least, that I can manage for myself."

There, her words are even-keeled, her expression placidly concentrated. She looks as she did when they were preparing for Videreyn, except perhaps more wan and clammy. This is business, her sworn task, and she will not forget again.

It makes him the weaker tether, then, for nearly breaking the very same demands he made of her (yet is that not his right? He has lived in Archades for longer, learned much of the intricacies of etiquette and nuance, even if he cannot always apply that knowledge cleanly— is he not allowed to then be more lax at times, trusting that he can counterbalance if necessary).

“It is not trust.” It is, she has the right of it, but he refuses that logic in much the same way that he refuses to move. To withdraw from her side like the intrusion he is.

“I wish to remain, for myself. For mine own comfort.”

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